“By the way, in this country, men don’t talk about their bedroom exploits.”
“In this country, men have none to speak of,” Paul said. “They get married, and their exploits shrivel up and fall off. Rena is a wonderful girl, but according to her, we are just incompatible. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
He fiddled with the fire some more and came back, this time sitting closer to me on the sofa. For such a virile man, he had a lovely mouth.
“Is anyone compatible anymore?” I said. “My parents are the only couple I’ve ever thought were truly in sync.”
“How did your father die?”
“I’ve never talked about it before. I was eleven, and back then one didn’t discuss such things.”
“Was he a good father?”
“On weekends he came up from the city to Connecticut. He exchanged his starched collar and waistcoat for khakis and pitched to us, endlessly, at the baseball field Mother had made at the far end of our property.”
“Was he often sick?”
“Never. But the spring of 1914, one day he was sequestered in his bedroom here, out of the blue. Only Dr. Forbes and Mother were allowed in. By the time I was sent to relatives with my valise packed, I knew something was terribly wrong. The maids stopped talking when I came into the room, and Mother’s face had a hunted look I’d never seen on her before.”
“I’m so sorry, Caroline.” Paul held my hand in his warm and soft one and then released it.
“Five days later I was allowed to come home, but no one would look me in the eye. As always, I got my best information hiding in the dumbwaiter just off the kitchen, peeking through a crack. We had four Irish maids living in at the time. The eldest, Julia Smith, filled her coworkers in on the big event as she shelled peas at the kitchen table. I still remember every word. Julia said, ‘I knew Mr. Ferriday wouldn’t go down without a fight.’
“Mary Moran, a skinny new girl, was pushing a dirty gray squid of a mop back and forth across the black and white tiles. She said, ‘Pneumonia’s the most wretched way to die. Like drowning, only slower. Were you in the room? Better not have touched him.’
“Then Julia said, ‘One minute he was laughing like a lunatic, and the next he was clawing at his chest saying it was too hot and crying for Dr. Forbes to “Open a window, for God’s sake.” Then he started asking for his daughter, Caroline, and it just about broke my heart. Mrs. Ferriday kept saying, “Henry, darling, don’t leave me,” but he must have already died, because Dr. Forbes stuck his head out the door and told me, “Run get the undertaker.”?’
“Lily Clifford, the youngest of the four, chimed in: ‘Just caught a glimpse of Mrs. Ferriday, arms around him there on the bed, saying, “I can’t live without you, Henry,” sounding so sad and lonely I wanted to cry myself.’
“That evening, Mother told me the news. I just stared at Father’s humidor, wondering what would happen to his cigars now that he was gone. Mother and I never spoke much of Father’s death and she never cried in front of me or anyone else after that day.”
“What a terrible thing, Caroline,” Paul said. “You were so young.”
“I’m sorry to ruin our festive mood.”
“That’s a heavy burden for a child.”
“Let’s talk about happier things.”
“You have a kind heart, Caroline,” Paul said, as he reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I almost jumped, his touch a jolt of warmth.
“Enough death and dying,” I said. “What else can we talk about?”
We both stared into the fire for a while, listening to the logs crack and pop.
Paul turned to me. “Well, I do have a confession to make.”
“Don’t good Catholics do that with a priest?”
He ran one finger down my stockinged foot. “It’s just that, well, I can’t be trusted around silk stockings.”
Did he understand the power he had in his fingertip?
“I’m afraid I was scarred for life by a school friend.”
I sat up straighter. “Maybe I’d better not know.”
“He had boxes of old photos under his bed.”
“Nature shots?”
“Well, in a way, yes. Mostly of women in silk stockings. Little else.” Paul swirled the amber in his snifter. “I’ve never been the same. It’s something about the seams. After I saw Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel sing ‘Naughty Lola,’ I had to wait until everyone else left the theater before I could stand up.”
“Marlene wore sheer black stockings in that.”
“Can we not talk about it? It still gets me a bit, well, overstimulated.”
“You brought it up.”
“Guess I’ve always been drawn to strong women,” Paul said.
“Have Mother introduce you to Eleanor Roosevelt.”
Paul smiled and placed his snifter on the floor. “You’re unique, you know, Caroline. Something about you makes me want to bare my soul.” He looked at me, silent for a moment. “I get attached, you know. You may not be able to get rid of me.”
“Like a barnacle,” I said.
He smiled and leaned closer to me. “Yes, whatever that is.”
I stood, smoothing my dress. We needed to change gears before things became complicated.
“Wait here,” I said. “I have something for you. Nothing elaborate.”
“So mysterious, Caroline. Much like Marlene.”
I went to my bedroom. Was this a mistake? Did male and female friends give each other gifts? He had nothing for me, after all. I brought out the silver-papered package I’d wrapped and rewrapped to give it a casual appearance and handed it to Paul.
“What is this?” he said. Was the pink in his cheeks from embarrassment or the cognac?
“It’s nothing,” I said and sat down next to him.
He slid his hand under the paper to break the cellophane tape.
“Really, it’s just a friend gift,” I said. “Betty and I give each other gifts all the time. Just casual.”
He pulled back the folded ends and sat with the paper open on his lap, staring down at the folded rectangle, the color of aged claret, apparently struck mute.
“It was Father’s,” I said. “He had dozens of them. Never wore them, of course. Maybe if he had—”
Paul lifted the scarf, merino wool backed in silk, and held it, working the fabric with his fingers.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said.
My mouth went dry. Had I been too forward with such a personal gift?
“Won’t your mother object?”
“She would have dispensed with all Father’s things by now if I’d let her.”
“Maybe it is hard for her to see them now, with him gone.”
“She almost gave his vicu?a coat to an underdressed delivery boy.”
He lifted one end of the scarf and slowly wound it around his neck, head bent. “This is too beautiful, Caroline.” He finished and opened his hands, palms up. “Well?”
He looked like one of the boys about to go out sledding on Bird Pond up in Bethlehem, high color in his cheeks. What would it be like to kiss him? Would we both regret it, seeing as he had a wife, incompatible or not, who would soon be waking up in France waiting for his call?
Of course.
I stood, a bit light-headed.
“Would you like to see them? Father’s clothes, I mean.”
I led Paul down the hallway to Father’s room. Mother and Father had kept separate bedrooms, as was the custom then. The desk lamp in the corner sent shadows up the wall. The maids still dusted the room, washed the organza curtains each spring, and laundered the Greek key linens, as if Father were expected back any day, ready to shout, “Hi-ho!” and throw his leather valise on the bed. A small sofa sat in the bay window alcove, slipcovered in relaxed, faded chintz that lost its waxy sheen long ago. I opened the door to Father’s closet, releasing a wave of Vicks VapoRub and tobacco-scented air, and clicked on the light.